


A Shard Of Glass

by Liravell



Category: Mozart l'Opéra Rock - Mozart/Baguian & Guirao
Genre: Angst, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Gay Sex, Huge Mess, Hurt/Comfort, I'm so sorry for this, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Italian Boyfriends, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Past Relationship(s), References to Depression, Say Hello To My Depression, Smut, and, this is probably a mess, welcome to the sin bin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-06 05:53:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14635440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liravell/pseuds/Liravell
Summary: Lorenzo lingered in front of the door to Salieri's apartment. The word "love" was never spoken between them, yet he still remembered the sweet kisses and awful fights. He remembered his harsh words that ended their work together. Da Ponte unlocked the door, not ready for what he saw inside.





	A Shard Of Glass

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by "Nero" from "La Luce" (aka my angsty evening), that I recommend reading before this, yet it's not necessary, and lesmisloony's work. 
> 
> Also: My first fanfic including a sex scene... So please: forgive me.

Lorenzo turned the ornamented key in his hands. His fingers trailed its carefully carved arcs making the cold metal warmer with the heat of his skin. Salieri gave him the key to his apartment when they were still working together but using it after all this time seemed… inappropriate. He reminded himself why he was here. Tightening his grip on the royal projects that were commissioned to Salieri he unlocked the door.

The suite was unusually cold. Its elegance looked almost dead in the dim light of a rainy afternoon. Da Ponte took a deep breath and headed towards the music room, knowing the way too well. The piano stood in the center, its black surface covered with scattered sheets full of deletions and spilled ink. The desk next to it was knocked over and the stains on the chair smelled like wine. Lorenzo never saw such a mess. Not in this room. It always had a special place in Antonio’s heart. The state of the room made Da Ponte uneasy.

A cold gust of wind shifted his focus to the opened window, a source of the chill that filled the apartment. Hurrying, he walked over and closed it, stopping the wind and rain from damaging the room any further. And then he saw Salieri.

The man was seated in a voluminous armchair at the end of the room. His head tilted back, his black hair a mess, his hand lying on the near table lifelessly. His hip bones visible because of the ridden up shirt covered in stains. Lorenzo carefully walked closer. He could see the long, red scratches that covered his friend’s arms and neck. There was probably more, hidden under the white shirt. One look at the near coffee table made him sigh painfully. The scarlet bottle of laudanum, opium dissolved in alcohol, was almost empty. How many times did he use it? How much did he take?

Da Ponte still remembered how Salieri hated that medicine, that drug. He got a prescription from one of the court’s physicians to help him with the  _ melancholy _ , as the doctor described it. Salieri hated that word. He hated that bottle. And even though he kept it Lorenzo never saw him use it. Until now.

‘Oh, Antonio… What have you done?’ Da Ponte’s voice was but a soft whisper, he didn’t want to wake him up, yet the man in front of him shifted at the sound and took a deep, shaking breath. The musician’s eyes opened. First, he was confused, not sure where he was, but when he remembered what happened he couldn’t force himself to look at his librettist. He focused on the cold light and the view outside the window. The Viennese street soon blurred and he closed his eyes with a painful expression. He could feel tears welling under his eyelids and running down his face. He tried to say something, but the only thing that came out of his lips was a sob that he tried to muffle with his palm too late.

Lorenzo waited. He didn’t know the pain that took over Antonio. He didn’t know but he understood. And he waited, minute after minute, for him to calm down. When Salieri opened his eyes, again looking numbly at something on the street and finally started to breathe evenly Lorenzo lifted his hand and touched the red marks on Salieri’s neck. The composer flinched.

‘Did you do that to yourself?’ The question sounded more strictly than Da Ponte intended.

‘Yes.’ the response was quiet. ‘I… It was too much and… My own body felt so strange. There was this pain… Something inside me… Everything hurt. Not in a physical way. I had to drown it. I had to. Escape. Everything…’ Salieri paused. He didn't need Da Ponte’s pity. Lorenzo saw him clench his jaw, trying to get a grip on himself. ‘I think you should go, Da Ponte.’

‘I’m not leaving you like that.’ He stood up and took that damned bottle. With a few quick movements, he poured out the last drops of laudanum on the street. Antonio felt as if his former librettist took away his only salvation, destroyed his only escape from the demons inside him, but he did not move. Lorenzo gave him one pitiful look and left the music room. Salieri did not know how long was he alone, five or thirty minutes, before the writer came back. He extended a hand to Salieri in a simple command to stand up. With a grimace, disgusted by his own weakness, Antonio took his hand and let Da Ponte lead him wherever he wanted.

The bathtub was filled with hot water and some kind of oil that made the air smell like geranium, bergamot and heathers. Salieri didn’t even have essential oils. As much as the idea of a bath seemed ridiculous he said nothing, too tired to object, too tired not to give in to the tempting, warm water.

Da Ponte helped him take off his shirt, not saying a word when he noticed Salieri was shaking. For a second he stared at the red, slowly fading scratches. Antonio looked away, avoiding his gaze while Lorenzo closed his eyes with a heavy feeling of regret. Somehow he couldn’t help but think that he should have known earlier. He should have been here earlier.

They stood like that. Frozen in the moment. Two silhouettes filled with shame and regret.

‘Will you…’ Antonio cleared his throat trying to regain his dignity and composure.

‘I said I won’t leave you.’ Lorenzo sat on the floor, the bathtub behind his back. He rested his head against the wall. He knew how weird the situation must have looked like, but he was too afraid Antonio might do something stupid. And after all, they knew each other well. The memories of the things they shared in the past roamed in his head. 

The warm water rippled as Salieri entered the bathtub. At first, he felt stinging where his skin was still marked, but after the first minute, the water felt almost soothing, as it could heal all his wounds. Only when his muscles began to give in to the heat did he realize how cold and tired he was. He tried to calm himself with the chill, with rain, wind, and storm, but it did not work. Not this time. His mind only took the storm’s form and continued to rage on. But here, as the water surrounded him, his thoughts began to calm down. The sweet smell and warmth drove out any bothering feelings. He closed his eyes, taking in all the sensations. Right here. Right now. He was breathing. He was okay.

Antonio left the bathtub, put on a fresh outfit that Da Ponte brought for him earlier and quickly left the room, making Lorenzo run out behind him. For a moment he lingered not sure where he should go or what to do. He needed something to focus on. He needed a distraction. A few steps were enough, Salieri walked into his bedroom and grabbing a book from one of the shelves, he sat at his desk. 

Lorenzo observed him, yet said nothing. Soon he joined him with a blank sheet of paper and some ink. As Da Ponte started to write something down, Salieri tried to focus on reading.  _ Divine Comedy. _ Hell. Heaven. With every word, he grew more and more tentative. Somehow the feeling came back. He didn’t want it. He couldn’t bear it anymore. Maybe he was a coward, but as he felt it creeping back into his body, into his soul, he panicked like never before. His entire being started to shiver. When he looked up from the book which pages were know clenched in his hands, he met Lorenzo’s gaze.

Da Ponte’s amber eyes were full of silent apprehension and anticipation, not sure what was happening.

The dark eyes of Antonio Salieri started to fill with fear and pain he could not control.

In a second Da Ponte was by Salieri, his hand resting on the other man’s leg as he kneeled beside him.

‘I can’t Lorenzo. Please, leave now.’ Antonio sounded almost harsh.

‘I am not going to leave you.’ Lorenzo repeated accenting every word. ‘Tell me.’

Antonio lowered his head, running his fingers through his black hair. 

‘I can’t. I don’t know what is happening. It takes over my heart. My soul. My skin is numb. I feel as if my body belonged to someone else… Something inside of me… Please, leave. I can’t do this… Leave, Lorenzo.’ Salieri paused for a second. And then his voice changed. ‘Or maybe... There’s a pharmacy across the street. Laudanum. Just half of the bottle. Please. I just want it to go away before it takes me…’ 

When the musician looked at him, Da Ponte saw so much pain. Pain that he could not stop. Lorenzo was on the verge of tears himself, but he couldn’t let that happen.

‘No. That drug just makes you numb. Lifeless. Thoughtless. That is not an answer.’ He saw how Salieri’s chest quivered with every, quick breath. There wasn’t much he could do. ‘Maybe this is…’

And Lorenzo kissed him. Not softly but with burning passion that for a moment devoured both of them. Instinctively, he gently cupped the musician's rough cheek. A beautiful reminder of what they once had made Lorenzo regret all the fights and all the mistakes. Regret leaving him.

Antonio suddenly broke the kiss. His lower lip trembled in irritation or maybe anxiety. Da Ponte chose to ignore it. Their faces were only inches away. They felt each other's heavy breaths.

‘Lorenzo, this is the last thing that I…’ The composer started his bitter excuses. With one hand holding onto Salieri’s chair, Da Ponte leaned a bit closer. His free hand left Antonio’s face. His smooth fingers traced the marks on the other man’s neck, chest, stomach, getting lower and lower. All Antonio’s objections were broken by a moan escaping his lips when Lorenzo reached him. 

The librettist observed his friend carefully. He saw his black eyes closing in pleasure, his chapped lips parting in a wave of delight. When they looked at each other again, he saw the warning signs and the unspoken questions in Salieri’s eyes.

Is it right? Is it what Lorenzo really wanted? Is it what he wanted? Or will it become another one of their regrets? Will it make it go away?  _ Will it take the pain away? _

Oh, but it did.

Lorenzo led him to the bed and pushed him down gently. Antonio felt the silk sheets shift under his body. The writer’s movements were sure and precise as he undressed his former composer. Salieri laid still, paralyzed. Unsure of what was happening. Unsure of what to expect. Every time he felt Lorenzo’s hands brushing against his bare skin a shiver pierced through his body. 

Da Ponte’s eyes were filled with soft joy and care when he saw how bittersweet Antonio looked tangled in sadness and pleasure. 

‘Do you want me to do this? Is this okay?’ he whispered. Salieri did not respond immediately. If he agreed now there was no way back. For a few seconds, he admired the men in front of him considering how this could end. He watched his brown hair tied in a messy ponytail. He looked at the amber shine in his eyes and the wrinkle of concern between his eyebrows. ‘I have to be sure. Please, say it.’

‘Yes.’ Salieri’s voice was tremulous and weak. He lingered. ‘Just... don’t ask again.’

Da Ponte smiled faintly as he put one of his hands on the bed, above Antonio’s head, and placed the second one on musician’s hip, pressing it down, making his lover feel that it was his body. Right here. Right now. He leaned forward and placed a kiss on his lips. First, soft then more and more passionate. The heat of Lorenzo’s mouth moved to the composer’s neck, treating his delicate skin with soothing kisses just to attack it with rough ones and sucking moments later. The hasty breath did not escape Da Ponte’s attention. 

‘You can stop this whenever you want. Just say it’ he whispered into Antonio’s neck giving both of them a break to cool off a bit. Instead of answering Salieri buried his hand in the librettist’s hair and pulled him closer, sealing their lips in another kiss.

In a heartbeat, Lorenzo’s hands were everywhere. His long, slim fingers making Antonio moan with the smallest of touches. Maybe he wasn’t a musician, but he knew well how to bring out the most beautiful sounds from his lover. With his hand between Salieri’s thighs, Da Ponte’s touch felt like too much and not nearly enough at the same time. And then writer’s kisses began to shift again. Lower. Lower. Lower. A pair of brown eyes watched Antonio’s reaction as the heat spread over him. With a groan, he thrust his hips forward seeking more friction, more pleasure. He was quickly stopped by a hand, pressing him harshly to the bed. Again. His fists clenched tightly the silky sheets around him, trying to hold on to some fragment of reality. As his vision began to blur and he found himself on the edge, the heat disappeared. There were no hands on his body. No breath that warmed his naked skin. He laid, trembling slightly. Waiting. Just as he was about to open up his eyes, he felt the bed shift under Lorenzo. The air started to fill with the smell of geranium and bergamot. So it was Da Ponte’s oil.

His breath got heavy again when he felt the weight of Lorenzo on top of him. Soon he was showered with kisses, some hungry and intense, other soft as whispers. He felt his writer’s fingers playing with his hair. Until everything stopped. Lorenzo slowly kissed his collarbone.

‘I want you to know, that this is what I want. It’s not pity. It’s not regret. I love you, Antonio.’ Knowing what thoughts could torment Salieri later, Lorenzo wanted to be clear. He spoke slowly, taking breaks for breaths soaked with desire, brushing his lover’s skin with his lips. And then Antonio felt his fingers. His sharp breath was muffled by another kiss. And another and another. Their bodies moved together in one steady rhythm. Soon Lorenzo was inside him. Everything slowed down until Antonio pursued more. He slid his hand around Lorenzo’s neck seeking the heat of his skin. The sound of his breath. The intimacy and understanding that he has always granted him. Making the thrusts deeper and harder until he lost himself in the new sensation. Until the world around them shattered to pieces...

The only sound in the room was a quiet, calm breathing. Lorenzo couldn’t take his eyes off of the man sleeping next to him. His bare skin still shining with sweat. Chest rising in a steady rhythm. For the first time in a long while, he saw Antonio’s face unbothered. Not frustrated. Not sad. Not in pain. Somehow Antonio reminded him of Endymion. Tragic. Beautiful. Frozen in time. He resisted the urge to caress his skin. He resisted the urge to kiss off the salty spots that his tears created in corners of his eyes. He resisted because he wasn’t sure if he was still allowed to. Lorenzo wanted this. He wanted this since they shared their first kiss, all those years ago. He wanted this even after he left. But what if it was just a moment of weakness for Salieri? The harsh words of an old argument, the fight that parted them for too long, rang in his ears. It would be better if he left. 

Da Ponte started to rise from the bed but his hand was covered by another.

‘Don’t.’ The voice was deep and cautious. He saw black eyes looking at him expectantly. How could he refuse? Lorenzo laid back on the bed.

‘I’m not going anywhere. Just shifting.’ he reassured his lover. Antonio intertwined their fingers and rose Da Ponte’s hand to his lips, leaving a delicate kiss on his skin. Lorenzo could feel his mouth widen in a weak smile.

‘Lorenzo Da Ponte…’ the musician laughed, the sharp, deep sound cutting through the air. ‘The court’s chief liar…’ Salieri murmured with a joking tone and went back to sleep, leaving Lorenzo to his thoughts.

Was this the right way? Was this the answer to Antonio’s suffering? Touching. Moaning. Grasping. Lorenzo was aware that  _ this _ wasn’t a healthy solution, yet it was better. Better than an empty scarlet bottle. Better than a shard of glass.


End file.
